THERE WHERE YoU arE not1 Kamal BOUllata Kamal Boullata was born in Jerusalem in 1942. He is a graduate of the Fine Arts Academy of Rome and the Corcoran Art Museum School in Washington, DC. Public collections holding his art include the British Museum, London; Alhambra Islamic Museum, Granada; National Gallery of Fine Arts, Amman; Institute of the Arab World, Paris; New York Public Library, New York; Arab Museum of Modern Art, Doha; Bibliothèque Louis Notari, Monaco. As a Fulbright Fellow (1993 and 1994), he conducted research on Islamic art in Morocco and Spain. In 2001, he received a Ford Foundation grant to research post-Byzantine painting in Palestine. Books he edited include If Only the Sea Could Sleep: Love Poems by Adonis (2003); Belonging and Globalization: Critical Essays in Contemporary Art and Culture (2008). Books he authored include Palestinian Art from 1850 to the Present (2009) and Between Exits: Paintings by Hani Zurob (2012). – Address: Joachim- Friedrich-Straße 2, 10711 Berlin. E-mail: [email protected] “Paradise without people is not worth stepping in.” This is the Arabic saying that came to mind as I was walking down Koenigsallee. A year’s residency had just come to an end. All the familiar faces of Fellows, their partners and the children had vanished from Grunewald. Being the last to depart, I could not believe how the Institute that was throbbing with life, conviviality and intellectual zest was turned overnight into a desolate place. The departure of most of its staff deepened the desolation. The beauty of the 1 “Dort, wo du nicht bist” the last verse from the Lied “Der Wanderer” adapted by Franz Schubert from a poem by Georg Philip Schmidt. arbeitsberichte 33 Institute’s setting continued to glow as ever before. But nothing was the same. It was the people at the Wissenschaftskolleg that were the heart and soul of the place: both the distinguished individuals who ran the institution with utmost grace and diligence and the scholars they judiciously selected and with whom together they would constitute a com- munity that I repeatedly heard Fellows liken to a residency in paradise. The grounds for my personal paradise began to take shape as soon as I learnt how to manage my time between the inevitable “interruptions” of communal living and the drive to focus on the painting project that I considered realizing during my residency. Through- out the first three months, sketches drafted evolved simultaneously with the blossoming of irresistible friendships cultivated mainly over the daily lunches and Thursday dinners. Once all sketches were completed, I embarked on my painting in the spacious and sunny office space turned into a splendid atelier on the second floor of Villa Jaffé. That is when everything began to flow effortlessly. I have never experienced going through the routines of community living where I have been so intellectually stimulated at the same time as I continued to be totally absorbed by my work. The joy of thinking was energizing as I heard experts present papers in colloquia on subjects I never thought could interest me. It was not the new knowledge that I acquired that moved me as much as it was the thinking I was invited to exercise. At times, this joy of thinking could almost reach the height of pleasure experienced in looking at beauty. Having been the first painter to be selected as a Fellow, there were times when I could not help but feel like the odd man out. I fully understood how discussions could be a necessity that compels the sharpening of one Fellow’s argument or veering the course of another’s research; but I could not discuss my own painting as I was in the process of call- ing it into being. While ideas are communicated by the same means of words one reads on a page, the language of painting is composed of matter that is alien to speech. That is why, when asked to discuss my painting, I frequently felt at a loss for words. If I were really able to express it in words, why paint in the first place? No wonder, it was during those breathless moments of silence we lived all together in anticipation of a Fellow musician’s concert to begin that I felt the closest to my Wiko community of Fellows. From the sessions of the reading group I joined to explore how a work of art could be a subject of discussion, I could trace how the level of pictorial interpretation has been elevated to an “image science” Bildwissenschaft. The punch that hits you in your gut upon beholding beauty in a work of art had no place in such discussions. Marianne Koos, who led the reading group, provoked critical and brilliant discussions that awakened my 34 Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin jahrbuch 2012/2013 insatiable interest in the relation between word and image. Marianne also contacted former Fellows including Horst Bredekamp, Gottfried Boehm and Hans Belting, who were instrumental in contributing to the formulation of the “image science”. In retrospect, I can see that the afternoons I spent with Hans Belting were particularly memorable for having allowed me a more personal glimpse of the man whose aesthetic sensibilities and reading of art history embrace a scope and magnitude that I have seldom encountered elsewhere. While discussions emanating in and outside the sessions of our reading group enriched my general knowledge, it was the interchanges I had with fellow musicians, and listening to their music, that propelled me right back into the throb of what I sensed every time I was facing a canvas. It all started one day early on in the year when I was having lunch with Angela Gronenborn. We happened to be talking about how our bodies respond differently to sights and sounds when Mauricio Sotelo joined our table. Thinking of how only through poetry we can fathom the welding of the visual and the audial, I turned to Mauricio to ask how he understood Lorca’s expression sonidos negros or “dark sounds” when speaking about flamenco. I do not remember his exact words but I do remember that a whole world opened up before us as he spoke. Angela and I were thrilled to learn how since childhood Mauricio found affinities between colour and sound and that today with the aid of a computer he synthesizes it all out in creating his compositions. In describing his music, I noted that he was employing terms traditionally associated with visual expression. Beside “tone” and “colour”, he also spoke of “line”, “edge” and “border” in music. For him, sound could feel “horizontal” or “vertical”, just as the word “architecture” referred to a composition’s structure. Soon after that day, former Fellow and composer Helmut Lachenmann, whose Streichquartett Nr. 3 “Grido” had been performed by Fellow members of Quatuor Diotima, returned for a few days to rehearse his “Salut für Caudwell” for two guitars. I attended both events. In the rehearsal I noted how, every time the originator of Musique concrète instrumentale interrupted the guitarists, he was trying to refine the quality in the infinitesimal rustle of strings. At one point, he likened the tactility of sound he sought to a cat scratching the string. Throughout his interruptions, his prime concern was what he called the “texture” of sound produced – another term associated with the visual. One day after all Fellows were gone at the end of the lunch break and I was left alone carrying on a conversation with Lachenmann, he asked if he could see my work on the arbeitsberichte 35 four triptychs. I told him I have nothing to show before June save for a mountain of pencil drawings on paper and a handful of studies in acrylics on canvas. Though I never let any- one view my embryonic markings, especially no one who never saw my work before, I could not but comply with his wish. Soon after detecting how the so-called Fibonacci sequence of proportional ratios was employed as a skeletal base for structuring my geometric compositions, he launched a discussion on chord progression and temporal proportions by which I sensed how correlations between contemporary music and abstract painting are drawn. I was spellbound by his discourse. We lost all track of time. By evening, as I was walking back to Villa Walther under the gentle floating of snowflakes, I could not help but recall how Adorno once referred to the ear as being the eye’s Other.2 Lachenmann’s words evoked in me an unflagging zeal to pursue my intuition to learn more about the affinities between music and painting. The impetus he aroused only matched his music’s virtuosity in provoking my ears to listen to unprecedented sounds emanating from classical instruments. But it was his student Mark Andre whose work revealed in what sphere the temporal and the spatial arts could merge. Mark presented several recitals during the year. One afternoon, in his work “… als … II” for bass clarinet, violoncello and piano, interpreted by Trio Catch, the spatial quality of the Große Kolloquienraum was highlighted when the piercing shriek of the bass clarinet was emitted from the back of the hall as the accompanying performers continued playing before the audience. Understandably, music had always possessed spatial qualities by virtue of the fact that it unfolds in space; Mark, however, has been seeking to expand the dimension of space in his music even beyond the place where it is performed. Hence, he recorded the acoustic quality of places he selected to incorporate their furtive sounds into the body of his composition.